I'm down
by Lonelyadelaide
Summary: During the train ride on their first American tour, Paul gets a migraine... Some very light romance, I guess. But mostly it's me remembering the hell of traveling and gigging with a headache, and I love the Beatles! I could continue or not. Feedback would rock!


_I definitely don't own anything except the experience. And yes, I should be working on my other stories, but hey-this broke my writing block!_

Paul rubbed his temples.

"Paul."

"John."

"What's wrong?"

"Head."

"Bad?"

"Yeah."

"Here."

John threw his arm around his mate's shoulders and pulled him in for a hug. The younger Beatle relaxed, closing his eyes and sighing, his head lolling onto John's shoulder, not caring who was watching, who was filming, or when they were going to get there. And he cared about was his aching head. George looked up from where he was sitting opposite, playing cards with Ringo, but didn't say anything. It was their first American tour and ther were all exhausted. Heck, Ringo was playing with only one eye open.

A camera man behind the gamblers raised his camera, but John gave him the finger and a death glare.

"Can we take a little break from the paparazzi?" he asked quietly. This got Ringo's and George's attention, but Paul just winced at the noise and burrowed deeper into John's coat. "We're not going to do anything exciting for the next few hours, and we're dead tired. Those two," he gestured across the aisle, "aren't going to last much longer either."

There were a few startled glances around the compartment of the train. None of the lads made eye contact, but each managed to look believably sleepy. Ringo even started to snore.

"Well," the crew leader looked around, "I guess so. Pack it up, boys. We'll be back in a few hours."

The mass of cameras and sound equiptment was cleared and the crew wandered off to their own cabins and beds. There was silence for a minute or so, and then Paul moaned.

"Are they gone?"

"They're gone, love." John assured softly. "Don't open your eyes. Rings?"

"On it." The drummer stood and left the carraige.

George stood as well and squared the cards. "Where should we put him?"

"I think just down on these seats here. Or if we-"

"Here; stretch him across this bench over here." The lead guitarist started shifting various papers from the narrow bench under the window. John gently moved Paul's head from his shoulder and stood up, murmuring to his friend. When George had moved everything, he helped shift the singer to the new-made cot. Paul kept his eyes closed and his teeth tightly clenched as he was pulled to a standing position and guided across the train, John supporting one shoulder and Geroge the other.

"Here, Paulie. You're going to lie down now. I'm right here with you. Ringo's coming with some ice for your head. Geroge, help me with his feet, and can you get a cold cloth? Paul? Do you feel alright?"

There were flashed of colour now, even behind closed lids, and it was making him ill, so Paul just grunted in response to John's fairly obvious question. He could feel himself being laid down on a mercifully cool bench, and instantly his head was being pillowed on John's lap. A door opened as someone came in.

"Is he alright?" Ringo handed over the ice.

"Will be." John muttered, coaxing Paul's head up and putting the ice under his neck. Ringo cheered quietly as a few lines relaxed in his friend's face.

"Bloody cameras." George brought the cloth and started dabbing at Paul's face and neck with it. "Can't think the flashes were helping any."

"Mmph." All eyes turned to the comatose, who was now looking very pale.

"What's that, Paul?" John frowned.

"Water...?"

"Of course, love." The endearment slipped off the guitarists tongue as he reached for the glass.

Ringo shook his head. "You need to be careful, lads."

"Damn. I know." John sighed as Paul sipped at the water. "It's even worse here, I think. I mean, of course he gets one here," he lowered his voice, "and you know how clingy he gets. We're all going to be close, but Paulie especially."

"He's alseep," George noted, "so that's helpful. Rings, just remember that we don't know anything. As far as I'm concerned, there's a certain Jane Asher waiting back home for Paulie. Too bad for all the gals here!"

"Yeah, Geo, and too bad they don't want you." John grinned. And yawned. "Bleedin' migraines."

"Night...love." Ringo winked.

John leaned back against the window and close his eyes, flipping the drummer off. George laughed and stretched out on a convenient bit of floor, and Ringo retired feet-to-head with him.

When Paul woke up, the first thing he noticed was how wet his collar was. After a moment of thought, he started chuckling. Ringo grinned at his from his seat on the floor where he was leaning against the wall with George's head in his lap, a coincidental parody of the lads on the bench.

"Looks like he wet himself?" The bassist asked, not wanting to move yet.

"Terrible." The drummer cackled. "How's your head, Paul?"

The creak of steps in the connector outside the carraige door spared Paul an answer. He shot upright, cursing. Ringo shoved George from his pillow and scrambled to grab a blanket, with he tossed at Paul. The rhythm guitarist's lap was covered while he grumbled in his sleep. George lifted his head blearily, then staggared up and to a seat where he closed his eyes again. Paul started to arrange the cards on the table into some unknown game, taking off his wet coat, and Ringo leaned back again, feigning nonchalance.

The publicity crew came streaming in, cameras and lights were set up, sound systems were assembled, and men were everywhere.

John woke up and pushed the blanket off his lap. Paul rubbed his temples again.


End file.
